The Blackadder Situation
by lil-miss-chocolate
Summary: Thirty Kurts & Thirty Pucks Throughout History. Collection of AU drabbles.
1. Dover, February 1915

**A/N: This is going to be a collection of drabbles featuring various AU Kurts and Pucks from throughout history. Written for patchfire and raving_liberal's 30 Days Of Puckurt drabble-a-thon. With any luck, I'll make it to thirty!_  
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><p><em>Dover, February 1915<em>

Second Lieutenant Kurt Hummel stepped cautiously along the gangplank of the great Navy transport ship that was to take him across the English Channel to France. This was his first post, his first command. He, along with all the other lads from Downing College, Cambridge, had passed out only a week ago.

As he made his way towards the deck, Second Lieutenant Hummel tripped over on the wet surface.

A hand immediately flew out, catching him by the elbow and setting him steadily on his feet.

Second Lieutenant Hummel turned to see the cheerful face of his batman, Private Noah Puckerman, with a pair of duffle bags slung across his broad shoulders.

"Don't worry, sir, you'll lick 'em into shape. Just like you did with me last night," Private Puckerman said in his cockney accent.

Blushing slightly, Second Lieutenant Hummel turned back towards the ship, trying desperately to put the memory of last night's escapades aside and concentrate upon boarding the ship without making an utter fool of himself.


	2. Hadrian's Wall, AD 150

_150AD - Hadrian's Wall_

The centurion marched at the head of the body of men. Each step was perfectly synchronised, and clank of their armour beating out a steady rhythm. The crowds in the forum parted before them, knowing far too well the punishment they would receive for blocking the path of a Roman soldier - if they were fortunate, it would only be a punch from the butt of a spear. Most were not so lucky.

The soldiers marched out of the town, and onto the long straight pavement towards the wall. The wall that kept out the savages, the wild ones. The barbaric demons that came flooding through the town at night, their eyes aflame with rage.

When they reached the wall, the men seperated like a well oiled machine, taking their places as they began their guard shift.

The centurion stood stationary at the bottom of the wall. His hazel eyes darted back and forth, never still for a moment as he observed the men march into position.

The final man arrived at his post, and silence fell. The harsh clash of armour replaced by the sound of the cruel wind.

The centurion heard another noise. The sound of a body in pain. He heard the agonised groans coming from a gully just off the road. He nodded at his second-in-command, who moved towards the source of the sound.

The moans were muffled, as though the person making them was trying to be silent, but was in too much pain to help the noises escaping him.

For it was a him, the centurion discovered; his legionary waved him over as he bent over the source of the noise. The centurion approached, seeing a pale youth from the north of the wall, attired in leather strapping, blue stripes daubed in woad across his face and torso. And his eyes, fierce and angry even through his pain.

The boy spat out sharp words at the Romans staring down at him - neither understood him, but the meaning was clear. The boy hated Romans and all they stood for.

The reason for his pain was also immediately clear - his leg was twisted beneath him, snapped, his foot caught under the root of a bush. He had clearly been returning from a night-time raid when he has tripped and broken his leg.

The centurion sent the legionary to fetch two men and a stretcher, then returned his gaze back to the youth. Their eyes met.

A flash of recognition ran through the centurion. He had seen those eyes before. They had been as wild with fury and loathing then as they were now, flashing green and blue and grey in the morning light.

This was the boy who had been a prisoner and escaped. This was the boy who had spat in the centurion's face as he had walked past the cells on an inspection. This was the boy who was stronger than anything the Roman torture chamber had had to throw at him. This was the boy who was untameable.

This was the boy that the centurion was going to tame.


	3. Barumini, Sardinia, BC 976

_976 BC, Barumini Fortress, Sardinia_

The soldiers were weary. They had just come back from a long patrol, and had gathered to nominate a member of the platoon to report to the general. The rest would be allowed to disappear back to their little round houses, and (the lucky ones) to their wives. The soldier who drew the short straw stood tall as he drew, and with a surprising bounce in his step, left the huddle of tired men.

The patrolman was tall, and sturdily built. His hair was shorn close at the sides, his muscles bulging as he swung comfortably along towards the great tower. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, ducking to fit through the narrow passageway. Coming the other way was the general's scribe, a slender young man from somewhere in the north of the mainland. Clever and educated, he usually looked upon the soldiers with disdain.

But there was something in this soldier that was different. Perhaps it was the fact that the tall man looked down at with admiration, rather than jealousy, as so many of the men did.

Both men turned sideways to pass each other. As they did so, the soldier leant forward to brush his lips against the scribe's ear and whisper, "Meet me tonight at sundown. The empty hut behind the blacksmith's."

The soldier moved on, wanting to make his report quickly and return home.

The scribe remained still in the corridor, the only movement his hand slowly moving up to feel his ear where the soldier's lips had touched it. Perhaps he would have a good night tonight after all...


	4. Egpyt, BC 3100

_3100 BC, Ancient Egypt_

Pharoah's son stepped elegantly along the airy corridor. Linen drapes flapped at the wide windows, keeping out the sun, but not the breeze. The young man was lithe, and walked with a grace rarely seen in man or woman. His eyes were starkly outlined with kohl, accentuating their unusual shade.

A hand flew out from behind a curtain, grasping a slender wrist and pulling the surprised man back into the shadows.

In a flash, the supple youth twisted around, using his momentum to spin himself to face his attacker. By the time he stopped moving, a pair of wickedly sharp three-pronged swords had been drawn from his belt and were pressing against the assailant's neck.

The man in the shadows raised his hands. "It's me," he said in a low voice.

The prince relaxed as he recognised the handsome face of the High Priest. The man's head was completely shaven. as was the rest of his body; as the prince happened to know.

The priest's arms wended their way smoothly around the prince's waist. The swords were deftly replaced into their sheaths.

"Don't surpise me like that," the prince whispered silkily into the priest's ear. "Next time I might not know you in time."

The priest nodded his agreement. There were currently three objects pressing against his lower body, and he was only interested in getting intimate with one of them.


	5. Galilee, AD 32

**Just warning you, this contains religious references. I apologise if I offend anyone; that is not my intention.**

_Galilee, 32AD_

The two stonemasons laid down their tools. The shadow had just moved past the marker, and their shift was over. They tucked the worn into their leather pouches, and stood up straight, stretching out like cats in the hot sun.

The heat bore down on them. They had spent hours working beneath the bright rays, and they were exhausted. Wearily, they trudged back towards their village.

The larger of the pair, who was only slightly taller, looked up from the ground upon hearing the babble of voices from over the hillside

"C'mon, let's go and see," he said to the smaller man.

The response was a shaking head. "My father's ill. I have to get home to him. He needs me."

"Just take a moment. I think I know what's happening."

The larger man scrambled up the slope to see a large crowd, gathered around one man, who stood before the wide expanse of the blue lake. He wasn't a very tall man, or a very handsome man, but their was something captivating in his manner. Something in him drew people to him like moths to a flame.

The tall man called back down. "Come up! It's the preacher again!"

The smaller man's face lit up. "My father's longing to see him! Do you think we could bring him here?"

The bigger man nodded, suddenly revitalised. The pair hurried on with renewed energy, returning with an old man some minutes later. They helped the man up the slope, and the three sat together in the shade of the hillside, hands clasped together, listening to the man who first spread the word of love, peace and equality for all.


	6. St Petersburg, 1917

**I apologise for any historical inaccuracies: my knowledge of this period is sketchy at best.**

_St Petersburg, Russia, 1917_

The kitchen hand ran desperately along the corridor, his feet pounding on the expensive carpet. He could hear the sounds of confrontation echoing throughout the palace.

Puck threw decorum to the winds and pelted through the gold trimmed corridors, praying that he would be on time.

He wrenched open the door to the ante-chamber and sprinted inside. The bed was empty, and the covers mussed. The kitchen hand bellowed a name at the top of his voice, "KURT!"

He started to search frantically around the room, looking for signs of a struggle, of injury. He muttered to himself as he did so. "Please be here. God, please don't let them have taken…"

A panel in the wall cracked open, and a glasz eye peeked out.

"Puck!"

The whisper caught the kitchen hand's attention. He span around, scanning the wall for the source of the noise.

The youth hidden in the wall pushed the panel open further. "What are you doing here?" he hissed.

"The rebels, they're taking over. We have to escape. Please, come with me."

"No, Puck; we'll never get past them. Hide in here, wait 'til it's over."

The kitchen boy dashed over to the hidden clerk, yanking the door open, and squeezing his bulky frame into the cubby next to him.

The pair closed the door and waited. Waited for silence to fall. Waited for the screams to stop. Waited for the rebels to give up.

They held each other close and tried to ignore the sounds of panic and alarm. They would lose many things that day, but they were determined that they would not lose each other.


	7. Germany, 1945

**Given that this takes place in a concentration camp, there are references to past torture and possible past non-con.**

_A Nazi concentration camp, 1945_

Private Puckerman tried to hold his breath as he re-entered the filthy room one final time. He tried to feel pride in his achievements, but all he could feel was revulsion and hatred for the people who had done this.

Since the moment eight hours ago when they had broken down the gates to the concentration camp, the soldiers had seen worse sights than they could ever have imagined.

The prisoners were malnourished; starving. Covered with welts from bed sores, and wounds from heavy handed soldiers. Their eyes had a deadened look about them, as though they weren't really there – their bodies just performing task perfunctorily, their souls elsewhere.

Private Puckerman did one last sweep of the room, ensuring that every single person had been evacuated from the terrible place. He was about to leave when he heard a dry cough from the far side of the room. He hurried over to the source of the noise.

All he could see was a mouldy grey blanket bundled in the corner. He peeled it back, revealing a man so thin and emaciated that he could hardly be alive. Other than the blanket, the man, who was facing the wall with his eyes shut, appeared to be wearing nothing at all. His skin was bruised, with cuts all over his back.

"Again, Hoffenmeier?" the man said, in a hoarse and weary voice. "Is there no-one else whose body you can spend your frustration on?"

Private Puckerman tried not to recoil in horror from the things the man must have suffered.

"Sir?" he said softly, not wanting to frighten him.

The man in the corner slowly turned his head. "Is he sharing me around again? Are you one of the new 'confused' people he wants to persuade to his way of thinking?"

His voice was cracking, and so so quiet, but Puckerman could hear the defiance in every word.

"No. No, not at all. I've come to set you free."

The thin man's brow creased. "Who are you?"

"I'm Puck. I'm an American soldier. Let me take you outside?" Puck held his hand out, palm upwards, towards the man.

The man shook his head. "Can't move."

Puck's concern increased. "Let me carry you?"

The man nodded, trying to clutch the blanket to his body with broken fingers.

The American soldier gently wrapped the blanket around the man's stick-thin body, and carefully gathered him up in his arms. The man weighed no more than an eight-year-old child.

"What's your name?" Puck asked as he made his way slowly to the door.

"Kurt," came the croaky reply.

Puck nodded. "Kurt," he said softly. "I'm going to look after you. I won't let anyone touch you again."

Kurt turned his face into the strong man's shoulder and cried.


	8. San Francisco, 1965

San Francisco, May 1965

_'Cause baby love, my baby love  
>Been missing ya, miss kissing ya<br>Instead of breaking up  
>Let's do some kissing and making up<em>

The club was full, but not overly so. There was still plenty of space for dancing, a fact of most of the patrons were taking advantage.

Noah Puckerman entered. He walked smoothly, confident in himself. Here, he was in his element – one of the few places in the city where all rules and conventions were ignored, where people came simply to dance to enjoy themselves, no matter who they were. Amongst the bright colours of the clothes, it was clear to see that every person present was having fun.

One patron in particular caught his eye. A slender, poised man, tastefully dressed to the height of fashion, was perched daintily upon a seat at the bar. He was smiling contentedly at the sight of a large black woman dancing with handsome blonde man, looking on much as a proud parent would.

For a moment, the well-dressed man glanced towards the door. His eyes met Noah's, and after a quick appreciative glance up and down, a flirtatious smile spread across his face.

Noah made his way to the bar and sent a drink down to the well dressed man, just as another bartender arrived to deliver one from that same man.

Noah grinned as he looked over towards him, raising his glass in acceptance of the gift, and raising an eyebrow in a cocky wink.

Let the battle of seduction commence.


	9. Buckingham Palace, Feb 1840

**I did it! An actual, proper, 100 word drabble!**

_Buckingham Palace, February 1840_

The young German footman stepped lightly into the empty room. His movements were precise and his turnout was exquisite. He had accompanied his employer, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha from the cold German forests to the wet English court, and was a shining example of the best servant a prince could ask for.

Or so the prince thought, at least. He would perhaps have thought differently had he seen the salacious English gadabout following his footman into the Royal bedchamber, or seen the two men hastily divest each other of clothing and then enthusiastically rechristening the Queen's wedding bed.


	10. Camelot, AD 508

**I realise that the classification of "History" is tenuous at best for this fic, but Reesha does love the Arthurian period so very much, so this is for her. I must admit that it was fun making them talk like knights!**

_508 AD, Camelot_

The knights were sitting in their usual spots around the Round Table. King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad – all the way round to Sir Noah and Sir Kurt.

Nominally, there was no head to the table, with every knight present being of equal ranking. Everyone knew that this was not really the case – the higher the rank of a knight, the nearer he sat to the king, whose seat was directly opposite the huge oak doors.

Sir Noah and Sir Kurt were near the bottom of the ranking, so far from the king that they were nearly opposite him. Every time the knights took their seats, Sir Kurt could see the irritation in Sir Noah's handsome face. The burly knight wanted so much to be higher in the heirachy, to be able to speak and have everyone listen, as they did whenever Sir Gawaine spoke.

Sir Kurt slipped his hand into his lover's beneath the table, and murmured into his ear, confident that no-one would overhear them with all the racket Sir Percival was making, "One step at a time, my love. Each battle you win places you higher in Arthur's regard. You'll get there in time."

A small smile appeared on Sir Noah's face. "Your regard is all I _really_ care about, Kurt. Anyone else's is just fortunate happenstance."


	11. Off The Coast Of Virginia, 1655

**If you can't guess from the speech, Puck and Kurt are both English in this one.**

_1655, off the coast of Virginia, North America_

The young man dashed excitedly to the prow of the ship. The wind was strong in the sails, and he had just heard the call from the crow's nest: "Land ho!"

He stood as far forward as possibly, longing to see the green land ahead. After his father's death, he was sailing out to live with his mother's family in Virginia.

A deck hand came up behind him. "Keen to be ashore?" the tanned man inquired of the pale youth.

"Oh yes!" the young man enthused. "You can't know how much I long to feel solid earth beneath my feet again."

The deck hand nodded and chuckled. "You never did find your sea legs, did you?"

His answer was a fiercely shaken head.

The burly man clapped the slender one on the back. "Don't worry, lad. You're made of stern stuff."

The young man turned around in surprise. "Really?"

"Hell yes. You looked and felt like hell but you still mucked in with the lads. And you kept our spirits up with your singing every night, didn't ya?"

The travel-worn youth nodded. "I guess so…"

"I've seen a lot of inspired lads sailing out here, who heard the stories of riches untold, never thought about the work they'd have to do to get it. Well, I'll tell you something. They ain't none of them gonna go as far as you."

The youth coloured slightly and turned back to face the prow. He muttered to himself, "If only I had someone to share it with."

The deck hand chuckled again. "I can't help you there, lad. My one and only love is the sea."

A small smile appeared on the face of the youth as he stood side by side with his friend, watching the blur of land gradually fill the ever-nearing horizon.


	12. Old Harry Rocks, November 1940

_November 1940, Old Harry Rocks, Dorset_

The eight-year-old evacuee sat upon a rock and gazed out at the blustery beach. He didn't like this place. It was cold, and windy, and his hair was getting all messy. He wanted his mother to hold him and sing to him and comb his hair like she used to.

Kurt Hummel was an only child. He wasn't friends with any of the other evacuees, so he had been assigned a house far away from any sort of town, nowhere near any of the other city kids. He had been placed with a widowed mother, and her nine-year-old son Noah. Kurt wasn't sure, but he thought they might be Jewish. His mum had told him that some people were nasty to Jews, but that he must never be, no matter what the other kids said.

He sat watching the boats pass the huge white rocks and let the tears fall as he thought of home.

Kurt didn't know how long he had been sitting there when Noah came up awkwardly behind him.

"Uh, Kurt? Mum says tea's ready."

Kurt nodded and stood, brushing his tears daintily away.

"Are you crying? Why?" Noah asked with childish bluntness and curiosity.

"I miss my mum. And my dad."

Noah nodded. "I miss my dad. It's horrible."

Kurt felt a small smile appear on his face. It was nice to know that he wasn't completely alone.

Four months later, when the news came that Mrs Hummel had been killed by a bomb at hospital at which she worked, it was Noah that held Kurt as he cried. It was Noah who held Kurt's hand at school to stop the bullies picking on the small boy. And it was Noah who grew to love Kurt just as much as Kurt grew to love him.


	13. Glastonbury Abbey, 1099

**I know that when monks join they traditionally choose a new name, but for ease of reading Puck just kept his own in this fic.**

_Glastonbury Abbey, 1099_

Brother Noah stepped out from the light warmth of the refectory into darkness and the pouring rain. He had his hood up, but he could still feel the pounding weight of the cold water on his shaved head.

He raised a hand in greeting to the nobleman whose horse had just come to a standstill in the courtyard.

Sir Kurt Hummel rode a magnificent eighteen-hand charger, sitting comfortably astride the broad saddle. He wore a thick cloak over his fine travelling clothes, keeping out the worst of the weather.

He swiftly dismounted his horse and passed the reins to Brother Noah outstretched hand with a smile. "Thank you, brother. Is there any room here for a weary traveller?"

"Certainly, milord, though I regret that they will seem meagre and plain compared to-"

Sir Kurt cut him off with a wave of his hand. "A warm bed for the night is all I seek." He chuckled to himself. "Well, someone to share it with might be nice but I would imagine that that is frowned upon here," he said, with a wicked grin.

Brother Noah did not respond, simply bowing his head and gesturing with his free hand towards the refectory. "Travellers are always welcome at our evening meal, milord."

The noblemen swept away with a smile, leaving the pondering Brother Noah to take his horse to the stables.

And if it just so happened that Brother Noah brought a glass of hot milk to Sir Kurt's room after Compline, and just so happened not to leave until a few minutes before Lauds… well, what the abbot didn't know couldn't hurt him.


	14. London, 17th Dec 1983

**I apologise for the length – it just felt wrong to cut anything out.**

_London, 17th December 1983_

The American tourists walked side by side down Hans Crescent. They revelled in the fact that no-one even looked twice at their joined hands. This was a city that was filled with the locals (who didn't take any notice of anything other than their own business) and tourists (who didn't notice anything other than the famous tourist sites).

Kurt Hummel and Noah Puckerman were in love, or very nearly. They had never said it, but they both felt it. They had come on holiday together here, to the city that was millennia old, and yet still had a modern twist on every corner. Old and new stood next to each other, Tudor buildings wedged between glass spires. Anything seemed possible in this place, a city of love and of war, for it had seen more than its fair share of both.

People came to drink in the history. Over two thousand years of it, recorded in books, and walls, and streets, and buildings. In the museums that were open to all, just longing to share the wealth of knowledge that the city had gained over the years.

Very few realised that on that day, they were going to become part of that ever-growing history.

The two men had just turned the corner onto Sloane Street, revelling in the anonymity of the busy city, when an almighty explosion echoed from the road behind them. They turned around, horrified at what they might see.

A plume of thick black smoke obscured the building. There were screams coming from every direction. A policemen charged past them, muttering something about "Fucking IRA at it again." A wrecked police car was just visible through the smoke. The man who had been selling pretzels on the street corner was now lying on the floor, writhing in agony, his legs apparently beyond repair. The plump, pretty little nurse who had been just ahead of the American couple dashed back to tend to the man.

In amongst all the horror, the terror, the sounds of despair, the two men stood still, each clinging to the other's hand like a lifeline. It had never really struck them before: the temporary nature of life. They had thought they had all the time in the world.

They watched as the pandemonium was slowly brought under control, wishing they could help in some way, but not knowing what to do. Fire engines did their work, ambulances came and went. The crowds that had gathered slowly dispersed. Workers in the shops along the road brought out cups of tea, offering them to the wounded, the shocked, the bereaved.

Still they stood there, hands clasped tightly.

A policemen asked them politely to move along, to be on their way, not to worry; everything was under control.

And so they turned away, moving as one, hands never parting. As they started walking, the taller of the pair leaned to whisper in the shorter one's ear, "I love you, Kurt. If anything else happens, you have to know: I love you."

With a tight squeeze of his partner's hand, Kurt replied, "I know. But I love you more."

"Not possible," Noah said simply. The pair carried on their way, and the city carried on around them. As always, the love was just enough to balance out the war, and London lived on.

**A special mention must go here to Sheila Selves, the nurse who ran back to help the pretzel seller. You are a truly wonderful woman and I am so lucky to know you.**


	15. The New London Theatre, 1980

_The New London Theatre, November 1980_

Kurt Hummel looked up from studying his sheet music. He knew it all already, of course; it was a comfort thing. He was surrounded by people in varying catlike poses – some successful, some not.

This was his first audition for a West End show. He'd been in countless productions before, but never here. Not in the heart of theatre land, the pulse that influenced all theatrical performances across the country.

It was a new show, this one. "Cats". On paper it sounded ridiculous: a bunch of people prancing around pretending to be "Jellicle" cats, but Kurt had a feeling that it might just take off.

He was auditioning for the part of Quaxo/Mister Mistofelees. His years of dance training would finally pay off if he got this role – very few solo songs, but so many dance solos.

Kurt looked down at the stage, leaning over the railing at the front of the circle. A tall, sturdily built man was auditioning for the role of The Rum Tum Tugger. He certainly seemed to have the charisma required, commanding the attention of everyone in the room as he strode around the performance space.

As Noah Puckerman finished his audition, he glanced up to the circle. A young man was watching him with a rapt expression on his perfectly proportioned face. Noah shot a quick wink in his direction as he turned to leave the stage.

He made his way up to circle, where all the rest of the potential Tuggers were awaiting the verdict. Noah quietly approached the young man, capturing his attention by placing a single finger under his chin and turning his beautiful face towards his own.

The young man's face was a picture of surprise, his mouth forming a small 'O' shape. He seemed unable to drag his eyes away from Noah's.

_Oh yes,_ Noah thought as he watched the man fumble for words. _This one's definitely a keeper._


	16. An English Country Manor, 1775

_An English Country Manor, 1775_

Twelve-year-old Kurt Hummel gazed wistfully through the iron fence surrounding the garden. It was a warm day, and his duck-egg blue jacket had been carefully deposited on one of the many garden benches. He looked out towards the little village and watched the boys playing there with longing on his face.

He understood that his father was keeping him safe by not allowing him to go and play with the village children, but he did so want to go and run with them, to feel like he was one of them.

One of the boys, the cooper's son, Noah Puckerman, broke away from the group and ran over to the immaculately dressed boy on the other side of the fence

"Climb over! Come and join in! We need a fifth man for our side."

Kurt looked over at the group of boys, and shook his head, annoyed.

"My breeches, my cravat… my waistcoat! They'll get so horribly mussed! I can't climb over that," Kurt said sadly.

Noah looked at the well-dressed boy, then back at the fence. There was certainly no way that he would be able to climb the fence without dirtying his cream and white clothing.

"Well then, I'll climb over and play with you there, then."

Kurt glanced guiltily towards the house before turning to face the scruffy boy. "You really want to? I don't know how to play."

"'Course!" Noah said cheerfully, preparing to scale the twelve feet of wrought iron.

Kurt smiled and nodded at him. "Come on over, then!"

Over at the big house, Kurt's father was watching his young son from the window. He knew that he shouldn't let Kurt mix with the villagers – they should learn to respect him as their future employer and landowner. But he couldn't bring himself to wipe the smile from Kurt's face that had been put there by the dirty young lad from across the way. The kind of smile that he hadn't seen since Kurt had been in the arms of his late mother.

As it was, Earl Hummel simply watched the two boys with a smile on his face. There would be time for reprimands later.


	17. A Battlefield In Virginia, 1862

_A Battlefield, Virginia, 1862_

The surgeon, a pale man by the name of Kurt Hummel, waved a hand dismissively at a dying man as he hurried past. He only had the time to save those who might live.

The next man looked like he might have a chance. His foot was destroyed by shot, and a clean amputation below the knee should fix him well enough, as long at it did not become infected.

The surgeon indicated to his assistants to place the man on the operating table. It was a rudimentary theatre at best, but it did the job.

He talked soothingly to the man as he prepared the ligature.

"What's your name, soldier?"

"Noah Puckerman, sir," he managed to gasp out."

"Very well then, Puckerman. Your leg's been shot up, I'm going to have to take it off. I need you lie there and breathe through this."

"Oh…"

"First, tell me of someone you love. Think of them. Let the thought distract you from the pain."

"My… my Beth."

"Good. Just think of her, and breathe deep…"

The surgeon moved to place the pad of chloroform over the soldier's mouth and nose. The last thing he heard his patient mutter was, "Don't let her go."

"Don't worry, Puckerman, she's not going anywhere, nor are you," the surgeon said cheerfully, willing the soldier to fall under quickly.

Soon Puckerman's breath was slow and even, not the hurried pants of a man in pain. The surgeon got to work.

After he had finished his task, and the sleeping soldier was being wheeled away to recorver, he uttered a quiet prayer, "Whoever she is, Lord, let Beth be there to welcome him home."


	18. A London Playhouse, 1594

_A London Theatre, 1594_

Two men in rough clothes sat in the nearly empty playhouse. A boy, with a delicate, youthful face, though older than he appeared, stepped into the centre of the stage.

"I'm Kurt Hummel. I'd like to audition for Juliet."

The men exchanged glances. Certainly the boy's voice would do. And he was pretty enough to make a passable heroine. They nodded to him to continue.

The lad stepped to the front of stage and started to speak. His face adopted a worried expression, and he looked concernedly out into the house.

_The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;_  
><em>In half an hour she promised to return.<em>  
><em>Perchance she cannot meet him: that's not so.<em>  
><em>O, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts,<em>  
><em>Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams,<em>  
><em>Driving back shadows over louring hills:<em>  
><em>Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love,<em>  
><em>And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.<em>  
><em>Now is the sun upon the highmost hill<em>  
><em>Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve<em>  
><em>Is three long hours, yet she is not come.<em>

In those few lines, the boy managed to persuade both men that he truly was a love-struck young girl, desperately awaiting word of her beloved.

The men turned to each other. The one with the blonde hair waited for the opinion of the darker man, who seemed almost swarthy. To look at him, one would not know that he was Noah Puckerman, the great actor, who had performed before most of the crowned heads of Europe.

The dark-haired man spoke decisively to his companion.

"Him. Of all those we've thus far seen, he is the only one who could make the room fall in love him."

He looked back at the young boy standing uncertainly on his stage, not yet realising that very little acting indeed would be required to convince the audience of his own love for young Kurt Hummel.


	19. London, 11th November 1920

**It wasn't meant to be, but this ended up as a sequel to Day 1, _Dover, 1915_.**

_London, 1920_

Captain Kurt Hummel stood among the crowds at Westminster and watched the hearse roll past. The coffin that rested upon it contained the body of an unknown soldier, one of the many thousands lost during the terrible Great War. The list of missing soldiers, fate unknown, was so long that it defied comprehension.

But it was only one of those names that Kurt cared about. The name iNoah Puckerman/i. It was three long years since he had seen his faithful batman and lover – he had been laughing and joking with the rest of the men. Then explosions had erupted everywhere, and everyone had been lost in the smoke and the dust.

Kurt had been found unconscious, and taken to a French field hospital. He tried to find out what had happened to his men, most especially Noah, but lines of communication were terrible, and the generals had had more important things to worry about than one small squadron of missing men.

Kurt had recovered quickly, and been ordered to a new post, slowly working his way up the ranks. He had carried on, as an Englishman always must.

But he never forgot his first batman, the one with the cheeky grin and the loving heart. The one who made him forget about life, about fighting, about war, and showed him the pleasures that were there for the taking, if only you opened your eyes and took them.

He gazed upon the coffin, wondering, as did so many around him, whether it contained the body of his own loved one.

He realises that, just the same as with every other grieving soul, he was never to know the fate of the man he loved.

A few hundred yards further down the way, on the opposite side of the road, Corporal Noah Puckerman came to the same sad realisation.


	20. Windsor Castle, 14th Dec 1861

_14th December 1861, Windsor Castle_

_**Sequel to #**9  
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Lord Puckerman strode hastily along the corridor. Prime Minister had summoned most of the cabinet at this hour of grief: the death of the Queen's husband, while not unexpected, was a completely unprecedented event. No one seemed to know any of the correct procedure for such an occurrence

Spotting a particular footman ahead, Lord Puckerman grasped his arm, tugging him into one of the many curtained alcoves along the hall.

"Kurt, are you alright?" the politician asked, looking intently at the slim man.

The footman shrugged hesitantly before he spoke, his German accent barely audible after such a long time in Great Britain. "Not too bad. I knew it was coming." He sighed. "The prince worked himself too hard. He was an excellent man, a good prince. She'll be at a loss without him. I don't know how the family will survive without him on hand to calm her tempers."

The burly Lord Puckerman took the footman tenderly into his arms. Kurt Hummel's hands slipped around his lover's waist, his head moving to rest on the shoulder he knew so well.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Lord Puckerman whispered into Kurt's ear.

"Nor I you," came the reply, said softly into the heavy brocade coat. "You're everything to me."

And while the furore rose around them, the pair took a moment to simply be glad of the fact that they had each other.


	21. Eion, Greece, BC 475

_475 BC, Eion, Greece_

"Run! For Zeus' sake, run!" The old man yelled at his son, pushing him out of the door.

"No!" the teenage boy yelled back, trying to force his way back inside. "I won't leave you!"

"The city is lost, son. Can't you hear them?" the old man insisted, trying to push his pale, gentle son outside.

_Yes_, the boy thought. _I can hear them. I know they're all running, I know we'll all be slaughtered. But I won't leave you here alone_.

"I _can't _run, son, not with my leg. But I won't see you killed because you refuse to leave me. My last thought will not be regret that I could not save you!"

"Father, please!" the boy pleaded.

The old man grabbed a passing soldier by the arm. "You, soldier. Take this boy with you. Don't let him return here, keep him safe. Take these gold pieces, and please, keep my son alive." He was nearly crying as he finished speaking.

The soldier looked from father to son, nodded tersely, and took the bag of coins. "If I can get him out of here alive, I will."

Relief washed over the old man's face. "Bless you."

The soldier turned to the boy and smirked. "Are you going to resist?"

"I will not leave my father!" the boy shouted hotly.

"Very well," the soldier said, proceeding to hoist the wriggling boy onto his shoulder. "This is going to be a very entertaining trip." He turned back to the boy's father and saluted him, before running to escape the city as though he was carrying no more than a lightweight shield slung across his back.


	22. Bath, 1906

_1906 Bath, the first ball of the season._

Mrs Puckerman gazed with pride across the roomful of chattering guests. Elegantly attired ladies, smartly dressed gentlemen: all to the height of fashion, and all eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Hummels. Though not part of the gentry, they were one of the richest families in the country, and their son, Kurt, was one of the most eligible bachelors in the land.

A whisper ran through the room as a guest spied the arrival the Hummels' coach through the window. Mr and Mrs Hummel, who immediately made their way to greet Mrs Puckerman, were followed by their son.

He moved with a grace that is rare to see, stepping neatly across the floor towards the hostess. He was immaculately turned out in the height of London fashion, his moustache neatly curled to perfection.

The young man bowed low over his hostess' hand, pressing his lips gently to her fingers. He straightened up with a gentle smile, and spoke in a high, clear voice. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs Puckerman."

The very air seemed to quiver as the guests hastily voiced their observations regarding young Kurt Hummel.

Mrs Puckerman waved her son over from across the room. "Allow me to introduce my son, Mr Hummel. Noah, this is Mr Hummel."

Kurt's smile broadened as his eyes fell on Noah Puckerman's handsome face. Both man made their bows.

"I'm glad you were able to attend," Noah said genially to Kurt. "My mother's been falling over herself to meet you for weeks now."

Mrs Puckerman's expression was scandalised. "Noah! How dare you embarrass Mr Hummel in thi-!"

Kurt cut her off with a graceful wave of his hand. "I have been scarcely any less eager to meet you myself, madam. Many's the lady I've heard express a wish for you to move to London and host your parties there."

He spoke so sincerely that Mrs Puckerman was utterly charmed, and she blushed an interesting shade of magenta. "My parties? Mentioned in London society? Come, sir, you must be joking."

"Not at all," Kurt reassured her. "I have heard that you somehow manage to attract all of the best company, and most beautiful ladies, in the land."

Whilst his mother fluttered with joy, Noah Puckerman deftly intervened, touching Kurt lightly on the elbow to get his attention and saying, "Let me introduce you to Lady Hermione, she's been so keen to meet you."

Kurt nodded his goodbye to Mrs Puckerman and turned to walk with Noah. He leaned close to say in a soft tone, "I think perhaps I should tell you; I have no real interest in meeting Lady Hermione, or indeed any other lady."

Noah turned to make eye contact with the graceful man. "Indeed? Nor I. I think perhaps we may get along very well," he said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

And in a manner that would have been most surprising to any who knew Kurt's very proper ways, Kurt twinkled right back at him.


	23. The Tower Of London, 18th May 1536

**Warning: Contains vulgar terms for Jews and homosexuals.**

_The Tower Of London, 18th May 1536_

The guards flung the prisoner against the stone wall and slammed the door on their way out. The prisoner hauled himself wearily to his feet and collapsed onto the pallet next to him.

And immediately leapt up again when the bundle of rags emitted a shriek, and started to thrash. A thin man emerged from the tangle of moth-eaten blankets.

"Who are you?" he asked of the newcomer in a baffled tone.

The new arrival replied, "Noah Puckerman," as he held out his hand to shake.

The thin man took it, cautiously, and shook it. "Kurt Hummel. Noah… _Puckerman_?" he queried.

The burly man nodded.

"You're Jewish," Kurt stated simply.

"Guilty as charged," Noah said humourlessly. "I'm a Jew, a Shylock, a yid. And yourself?"

"Found guilty of sodomy with multiple male members of the court, including George Boleyn."

"Found guilty? Did you actually do it?" Noah asked, a half repulsed, half impressed expression on his face.

"Not all of them," Kurt replied with a grim smirk. "There wouldn't have been enough hours in the day to do all of the men they accused me of doing."

"And George Boleyn?" Noah prompted.

"Guilty as charged," Kurt echoed Noah's earlier response. "I saw him quite frequently." He sighed, looking down at the floor. "Poor chap. He went to the scaffold yesterday. At least as a nobleman he was beheaded, quick and clean. I'm only a commoner. Apparently I'm no better than the faggots they'll use to burn me tomorrow."

Noah snorted. "They treat me just as bad, and it's not like it was a choice for me."

Kurt voice went very small. "You think I had a choice?"

"Of course. You weren't born with your cock up his arse."

"I was born wanting to. Well, not immediately. But I never chose to want to."

The men were silent after that. Neither had anything else to say. At least, not until Noah started to shiver, sitting in the centre of the freezing cell.

Kurt opened his arms, silently offering to share the meagre warmth of his blanket.

Noah hesitated. An annoyed expression crossed Kurt's face. "I'm not a rapist, Noah. I just want us both to be warm, and get a good night's sleep. It's my last on this earth, after all."

Noah relented, slipping onto the pallet and lying comfortably between the smaller man's arms. For those few hours before the sun rose and day, with all its horrors, began, Kurt Hummel and Noah Puckerman were at peace.


	24. Paris Opéra, 1882

_Paris Opéra, 1882_

Noah Puckerman stood nervously outside the dressing room door, flowers in hand. He wasn't usually the type to ask to go backstage, to meet someone as lowly as an opera singer. But this particular soprano had blown him away. She had sung so beautifully, the notes pouring pure and perfect from her mouth.

He had laughed with joy with her as she had met her lover, he had wept with her when he left, he had felt the same fury as she when her father had banished her lover from her home. He was completely entranced, entirely captivated with her voice and her sweet, puckish face. He wondered why the stage hand had sniggered as he had asked the way to her dressing room. Was she so difficult a person that Noah had such a slim chance of impressed her that the very idea was laughable? Noah hoped not.

The dressing room door opened, and another stage hand stepped out. He looked quite young, dressed comfortably in short brown trousers and a loose white shirt. There was something similar in his looks to those of the soprano – perhaps her brother?

The young man looked Noah up and down.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

"My name is Noah Puckerman. I'm waiting to see Miss Hummel, the soprano. She sang so marvellously, I just had to see her. May I speak to her?"

The stage hand blinked several times. "I'm Mr Hummel."

_Aha!_ Noah thought triumphantly. _I was right! He's her brother._

"May I perhaps see your programme?" Mr Hummel suggested.

"Of course," Noah said, holding it out to him, wondering what on earth he could want with it.

The man took the gold-tasselled booklet and flicked through it. He commented aloud as he did so, "I wonder, did they actually mention…? Oh, here it is. No, no they didn't."

Mr Hummel looked up at the puzzled man. "Mr Puckerman, there has evidently been a misunderstanding. If you look, you will see that the honorific 'Miss' does not precede the name 'Hummel'."

Noah looked again. The name in the programme – and indeed on the door – said simply "K Hummel". He realised why the man was upset – the singer was married, and he must be the singer's husband, and consequently annoyed that an audience member was calling upon his wife.

Noah made to beat his retreat. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't realise- I didn't intend to impose upon your wife-"

"My wi-?" Mr Hummel interrupted. "Mr Puckerman, you misunderstand me still. I am Kurt Hummel. I am the soprano you saw perform tonight. I think perhaps those flowers are intended for _me_."

Kurt's face wore an amused expression as Mr Puckerman wobbled slightly, and rapidly grabbed hold of the doorframe to support himself. This was definitely the most amusing reaction yet.


	25. Pompeii, AD 79

bThe actions of Pliny The Elder are historically accurate. The Roman I've cast as his cousin is fictional./b

Pompeii, 79AD

The slender Greek slave strode along the edge of the vineyard, wax tablet in hand. He was the chief scribe in the household of Quintinius Secundus Pliny, cousin of the noted naturalist. The slave looked out over the broad bay of Surrentum before him, registering with horror the column of smoke pluming from the mountain in the distance.

A tanned field slave paused in his work, leaning on his spade. "The mountain's been playing tricks all afternoon. The master's cousin took a ship over to investigate. Jupiter knows what he was hoping to find…"

The scribe tilted his nose upwards slightly. "It's not for field slaves to question the actions of educated men."

The broad-shouldered man chuckled. "I daresay. Otherwise there'd be a lot of questions about the line of men outside your chamber every night."

The scribe coloured slightly, but his haughty expression remained. "As I said, our actions are not yours to question," he said stiffly, before turning and walking back up the slope.

"Even if we want to join the queue?" the slave called after him, with only a hint of laughter in his voice.

The scribe halted, still facing away from the man. Head bowed, he spoke quietly. "If that was the case-"

"It is," the worker confirmed abruptly.

"Then I would expect you there no later than sundown." The scribe paused for a moment before continuing on his way.

"I look forward to it!" the field slave called after him. He continued, muttering under his breath. "Oh yes… I'm going to enjoy making you come apart. Can't wait to see what's under that tunic…" He turned back to his work, thinking with pleasure of the evening to come.

Neither realised that they would be 'coming apart' in quite a different manner; fleeing in a mad panic from the choking, sulphurous fumes with the rest of the household, trying desperately to avoid the death that master's cousin would shortly be suffering on the beach just across the bay.


	26. Osbourne House, Isle Of Wight, 1892

_Osbourne House, The Isle Of Wight, 1892._

**Sequel to **_**_#9 and #20_  
><strong>_

The footman shuffled into the study. Kurt Hummel was old now, too old for him to want to count the years. His hair, once so thick and lustrous, was now grey and wispy. He walked with a slight stoop, his back worn with years of bearing silver platters throughout the palaces of Britain.

Kurt Hummel, like many of Her Majesty Queen Victoria's household, was thought by many to be far too old to hold such a position. But the Queen was stubborn, and resolute in her desire to never dismiss any member of staff on the grounds of age alone. And Kurt was the last remaining member of the household her husband had first brought with him from Germany, all those many years ago.

The Queen was seated at her desk, the day's newspaper discarded on a nearby chest. It lay open, on a page near the back. Kurt, tea tray in hand, moved to pick it up.

And dropped the tray with an almighty clatter. He fell to his knees, seemingly unable to utter a sound or even support his own bodyweight.

The Queen turned quickly at the clatter, recognising the same stricken grief in the footman's face as she herself had felt the day her beloved Albert had passed away. However, she was at an utter loss as to why such grief had come upon him so suddenly.

She rang the bell, summoning members of staff to assist the old German. She didn't notice the text across the top of the page of the newspaper:

_**Obituaries**_

_**Lord Puckerman**__, late of __**Wrothingham Park, Kent**__._

_Sadly passed away early Tuesday last._

_A confirmed old bachelor, Lord Puckerman was a close friend of… &c &c._

It was only later, upon overhearing a pair of maids gossiping outside her bedchamber, that she realised that just what had caused the sudden incapacitation of her husband's most faithful servant. She had had her suspicions in the past, of course: everyone had heard the rumours. But it was only now that she realised just how true their love had been.


End file.
